ADVENTURE OF THE RIGHT-HAND GLOVE, Part One

Mystery featuring Arthur Conan Doyle. Conan Doyle is mistaken for Sherlock Holmes and must use his wits to free an innocent man accused of murder.

Submitted:Dec 21, 2010
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PART ONE:

It was a cold morning in January 1927. The wind whistled
through the trees outside and the rain pelted against the four
small panes in the upstairs window of the two-storeySussexhome.

A local G.P. of little renown, Dr Theodore Carringbush, I
had at first cursed my luck at being called out of my warm bed so
early on such a desolate morning, until finding myself in very
illustrious company indeed. Across from me, while I bent over my
patient, stood a literary giant and renowned spiritualist, Sir
Arthur Conan Doyle. Beside Conan Doyle, looking almost as hagged
as the man I had been called out to treat, was seated Doyle's
co-author of many years, Dr John H. Watson. Upon the small bed,
the greatest consulting detective of them all, Sherlock Holmes,
lay dying.

Fighting for the life of my patient, a victim of a common
stroke, I had little time to notice my surroundings, other than
to note the small wooden bedside table, a large cupboard near the
foot of the bed, and the high-back chair upon which sat the stout
figure of Dr Watson.

Having done as much as I could for the grey-haired
detective, I stepped back from the bed and stretched to ease the
ache in my back, from having been stooped across the bed for more
than two hours.

As I straightened and rubbed at my back with one hand, I
caught the gaze of Conan Doyle, who raised a questioning eyebrow.
I shrugged my shoulders in reply, admitting that I could make no
promises.

Hearing the sound of tea cups jingling, I turned around
to see the short, plump figure of Mrs Hudson, carrying a tray
holding a bowl of broth, a teapot and four cups and saucers.
Familiar with the name, from the narratives by Dr Watson and Sir
Arthur, I had at first been surprised to find the good lady still
alive, imagining that she would have to be more than one hundred
years of age. However, during the course of my administrations I
had overheard enough scraps of conversation to enable me to
deduce that the grey-haired matriarch who placed the cane tray
upon the small bedside table was named Eileen, and was in fact
the daughter-in-law of the famous Mrs Hudson, who had died nearly
a decade earlier.

Eileen Hudson and her husband, Tom, had taken up
residence with the famous detective fifteen years earlier, when
he had retired from hisBaker Streetlodgings to pursue the hobby of bee-keeping here
atSussexDowns.

Mrs Hudson lifted the bowl from the tray and tried
without success to make the great detective swallow a few
spoonfuls.

"Come on now, Mr Holmes, you really must try to eat
something," she coaxed, as though talking to a naughty child,
however, her tone was more plea than admonition.

She tried to feed Holmes, without success, for a few
moments, before turning to Dr Watson to say, "You really must try
to get him to eat something Doctor."

Watson looked up startled and muttered, "What? Oh yes,
yes, of course, Mrs Hudson. I will see what I can do."

Mrs Hudson retired from the room and Dr Watson took over
the task of trying to persuade the great detective to
eat.

For a few moments there was a calm, and so I took the
opportunity to study the other three men more closely. Sherlock
Holmes was very tall, perhaps six foot three, deathly thin, with
the famous beak nose which had been chronicled so faithfully by
Watson and Conan Doyle, and was almost grey-skinned with age. Dr
Watson was nearly a foot shorter than his long time companion,
and very much overweight, although no-doubt if brought to task
over it he would insist that he was the ideal weight for a man of
his age, and wore a thick, bushy, grey moustache, as did Sir
Arthur. Like Holmes, Conan Doyle was considerably taller than
Watson, but not nearly so thin as Holmes, although he was far
from stout. All three men had short, grey hair, as did I myself,
although I was no more than forty years of age at the
time.

Things had quietened down, and for a moment it seemed as
though Dr Watson were going to succeed where Mrs Hudson had
failed. But then Sherlock Holmes began to thrash his arms about
like a man possessed, and knocked the bowl of soup out of
Watson's hands, coating the bed, Watson, and the nearly new
floral carpet with chicken broth.

"Watson! Watson!" called out Holmes in a feeble
voice.

"Here I am, Holmes," answered the good doctor, lightly
taking hold of the great detective's shoulders.

Sherlock Holmes's eyes gaped wide open, then partially
closed again, as his vision seemed to come into focus and he
recognised his long time companion.

"Moriarty! Professor Moriarty!"

"Dead, Holmes," reminded Watson.

"Dead?" echoed Holmes, clearly puzzled.

"That's right. Don't you remember Holmes, you threw him
over theReichenbachFalls?"

"Yes," said Watson softly, obviously close to tears.
Watson bent across his long time companion, and buried his head
in the bedclothes for a few moments. When he finally looked up
again, the good doctor was openly crying.

I hurried across and clutched Holmes's wrist to search
for a pulse and found none. As I fought futilely to restore life
to the great detective, Watson cried unabashedly.

When at last I gave up the fight, Watson looked up at me,
tears streaming down his pudgy cheeks and said in a weak voice,
"Do you know what his last words to me were?" I shook my head,
and Watson said, "'Don't let word out about my death. It will
create an unhealthy excitement among the criminal
class.'"

I walked around the bed to put a comforting hand upon
Watson's shoulder and he looked up to ask, "Would you...would you
leave me alone with him for a few moments?"

"Yes, of course, John," said Conan Doyle, and the two of
us walked out into the tiny alcove which led through to the
sitting room.

I had marvelled at the room briefly upon being herded
through on my way to my patient, earlier in the evening. To all
extent and purpose it was a sitting
room-cum-library-cum-laboratory. Large wall-to-ceiling length
bookcases lined two walls, housing literally thousands of
hard-cover books, journals and files; some fiction, but mainly
non-fiction -- many of them bearing Holmes's name as author. They
seemingly covered every known subject, from the more traditional
sciences through to the esoteric and even occult sciences. I well
knew of Arthur Conan Doyle's interest in the occult and
spiritualism, and could not help wondering whether Sherlock
Holmes had shared his biographer's preoccupation. In the middle
of the room were two plush, leather armchairs, facing toward a
large open fireplace. Behind the two chairs, near the door to the
bedroom, was a long wooden bench, covered with a wide assortment
of chemistry apparatus: glass tubing, burners, and a large array
of test tubes containing all manner of brightly coloured
chemicals.

Conan Doyle poured two glasses of sweet sherry from a
small spirit cabinet a few feet in front of the laboratory bench,
and then we settled down in the armchairs to enjoy the warming
glow emanating from the open fire.

We sipped our wine in silence for a few moments, then
Conan Doyle said, "Poor Watson, I don't know what he will do now.
Holmes has been such an important part of his life since they
were brought together by youngStamfordin 1881."

"Have you known them long?" I asked.

"Oh yes. Watson and I go right back to the mid 1870's,
when we did our medical studies together at theUniversityofLondon. I first met Holmes in the mid
1880's." He stopped to sip his sherry for a moment, while
pondering. "1886, I think. Watson had been pleading with Holmes
for a couple of years, to allow him to write up some of Holmes
investigations, since invariably the credit for Holmes's work
always went to Lestrade, or Hopkins, or Athelney Jones, or one of
the other Scotland Yard boys.

"By that time I had already had a handful of short
stories published. So, after a botched attempt to transcribe one
of Holmes's cases by himself, Watson approached me to help him to
prepare A Study in Scarlet, from Holmes's
notes."

"And instant fame and fortune?" I asked.

"On the contrary, no one wanted to have a bar of the
book. In the end, out of desperation, we let it go to Ward, Lock
and Co., for the paltry sum of twenty-five pounds. Which did not
stretch very far between the three of us, even in those days. And
even then they held it over for a year, before releasing it as
Beeton's Christmas Annual. Of course, they made a mint
on the deal, but we never saw a brass far-thing more than the
original twenty-five pounds.

"So we went our separate ways for a while. Myself to
write The White Company; Watson to write up a few of
Holmes's briefer case histories. It was in early 1889 that we
began to write together again, and, of course, went on to write
up another three major cases, The Sign of Four, The Hound of
the Baskervilles, and The Valley of Fear, along
with another fifty or so shorter cases." Conan Doyle paused for a
moment to sip his sherry, basking in the warming glow of the open
fireplace, then said, "So you see, Holmes has been a major part
of my life too for the last forty years or so. Of course, I have
written other stories: The Marcot Deep, Sir
Gerald...."

At first I was puzzled by Conan Doyle's sudden silence,
but then I noticed the portly figure of Eileen Hudson standing
beside my armchair, peering across at the famous author.

"I am terribly sorry to disturb you, Mr Conan Doyle,"
said Mrs Hudson, "but there is a young lady downstairs, who
insists that she must speak to Mr Holmes."

"No, sir. Only that the poor man was indisposed." For a
few seconds we sipped our wine, Mrs Hudson standing beside my
armchair, while Conan Doyle contemplated the best course of
action.

"Well, I imagine..." began Conan Doyle, who was
interrupted by the sound of running footsteps upon the stairs
outside the room.

A young woman raced into the room, and had almost reached
the opposite door, leading to Holmes's bedroom, before she
realised that we were seated by the fire. For a few seconds she
stood a few feet away from the doorway, peering across at us,
before running across to stand behind the small cane table which
stood upon the floor in front of the two armchairs.

She peered at Conan Doyle, then at me, before asking: "Mr
Holmes?"

I was too spellbound by her beauty to reply. She was very
tall and beautiful. Long red hair hung down well passed her
shoulders. Like many redheads her skin was very pink and freckles
lined her face. Yet, somehow they added to her beauty rather than
detracting from it. She had bright, sparkling green eyes, high
cheek bones and full, red lips. She was remarkably tall, nearly
six foot, yet despite that her body seemed very well curved and
feminine.

I was still studying the young lady's figure, when the
portly Mrs Hudson strode forward purposefully to take her by one
arm and announce, "Here now, young lassie, didn't I tell you to
wait downstairs?"

Mrs Hudson started to half lead, half drag the young
woman away from the hearth, toward the door to the
staircase.

"Mr Holmes, oh Mr Holmes, you have just got to help me,"
pleaded the young woman, trying desperately to break free from
Eileen Hudson's surprisingly strong grip. "I don't know who else
to turn to...."

"Now, now, my girl, that will be quite enough of that,"
chastised Mrs Hudson, as she opened the door to lead the young
woman out into the corridor.

Conan Doyle cleared his throat loudly, then announced,
"That will be all right, Mrs Hudson. The least that we can do is
hear the young lady out, since she has taken the trouble to come
calling on such a miserable morning."

Thinking of the recent death of the great detective, I
thought, Miserable in more ways than one!

Mrs Hudson glared toward the great author, obviously
disappointed that she would not have the opportunity to throw the
young woman back out into the teeming rain. However, reluctantly,
she released the arm of the young woman who scurried back across
to stand with her rather shapely behind almost inside the large,
open fireplace, as she warmed herself and tried to think of an
opening to her tale.

Although her clothing seemed dry enough, the young
woman's long, red hair was soaked through, indicating that she
had come out with an overcoat, but without a hood or umbrella.
She warmed herself for a couple of minutes before the blazing
fire, obviously revelling in the glorious warmth, after the chill
night air, before speaking.

"Margaret Douglas," she answered, before leaning forward
slightly, peering almost expectantly toward Conan Doyle, as
though awaiting his next question.

I thought, 'This could take all day, if we're going to
arrive at her story by a series of questions and answers.' But
then, entranced by her beautiful profile, I decided that I might
not mind if it did take all day.

As the young woman hesitated further, I stood and offered
her my armchair, announcing, "I had best be on my way
now."

She refused the offer of my armchair, preferring to stand
in front of the large fireplace, however, she gladly
accepted

Conan Doyle's offer of a glass of warming sherry, which
she gulped down in two mouthfuls, before blushing at her
unladylike conduct. However, we hurriedly assured her that we
would make allowances for the wretched morning.

At last Conan Doyle said, "Now that we are settled,
suppose you tell us what brings you to our doorstep on such an
abysmal morning, Mrs Douglas?"

'Mrs?' I thought, then followed Conan Doyle's gaze to the
slim band of gold on her ring finger and thought, 'So Holmes
wasn't the only one!'

"Murder!" said Margaret Douglas, rousing me from my
reverie.

"What?" I asked, deeply shocked.

More calmly, Conan Doyle asked, "Murder of whom, pray
tell?"

"My husband, Ian."

"Do you have any idea who the murderer is?" asked Conan
Doyle, amazing us both with his incredible calmness.

"No, none at all," assured Margaret Douglas, fixing Conan
Doyle with a long gaze from her beautiful green eyes, "but the
police think that it was Andrew."

"Yet the police must have some reason for suspecting your
brother-in-law," said Conan Doyle. "The police don't go around
arresting people on mere whims...any more."

"Well...yes," agreed Margaret hesitantly, "you see Andrew
and I were engaged to be married...before I met Ian that is...and
so the police seem to think that Andrew may have been nurturing a
secret hatred for Ian these past five years, until finally it
burst forth, causing Andrew to commit cold-blooded
murder."

"Because..." said Margaret, hesitating. She took a step
forward and rubbed with one hand at her posterior, which had
obviously got a little too warm from the heat of the open fire,
then stammered, "Because Andrew was with me at the time that Tan
was murdered."

"Then I fail to see what your problem is," said Conan
Doyle. "All you need to do is go to the police and vouch for your
brother-in-law's whereabouts at the time of the
killing...."

"I'm afraid that it is not quite that simple," Margaret
said, fixing Conan Doyle with a look from her beautiful green
eyes. "You see, Andrew and I are lovers."

"You mean that you were lovers?" I asked.

"No, no, Dr Watson, I mean that we are lovers," corrected
the beautiful redhead. "You see, Mr Holmes, Andrew was with me at
the time Ian was killed; in bed with me."

I looked at the great author in amazement, then at the
beautiful redhead, and saw that she too was astounded by Conan
Doyle's cool-headedness. She fixed her glorious green eyes upon
my face for a moment, then looked away blushing, obviously
remembering the admission which she had just made in my
presence.

"There is no way that you could vouch for Andrew, without
informing the police of your relationship," said Conan
Doyle.

"But if she does that, the police will accuse her of
being a biased witness," I pointed out.

Conan Doyle nodded his agreement.

"But there must be something that you can do, Mr
Holmes?"

Conan Doyle took a fob watch from his trousers, clicked
the watch open, then said, "Let me see. It is a little after five
a.m. now, so I assume that the murder occurred some time last
night?"

"Just before midnight," confirmed the redhead, "but the
police did not take Andrew into custody until half an hour
ago."

"You were with him when he was arrested?"

"Yes, however, I stayed in the bedroom and eaves dropped
on their conversation," admitted Margaret. She blushed again,
then said, "Perhaps it would have been best if I had made my
presence known to the police there and then. Then I could have
explained why Andrew could not have murdered Ian."

"Still, there would have been more than enough time for
Andrew to kill your husband, then flee to your warm bed,"
suggested Conan Doyle, making the beautiful redhead blush
becomingly.

"But he didn't!" Margaret almost shouted at the great
author. "He was with me all the time from about7:30 p.m."

"You went to bed at7:30?" asked Conan Doyle.

"Well...um," stammered Margaret Douglas, blushing
again.

Watching the beautiful redhead, I could well understand
the reason for their early night, however, to my amazement, I
noticed that Conan Doyle kept a perfectly straight face as he
repeated the question.

"Yes," admitted Margaret, "we did."

"Then the first thing that we must do is have a few words
with Andrew," suggested Conan Doyle. "I don't suppose that you
managed to overhear the name of the police officer who arrested
your lover?"

"Oh yes, yes I did," said Margaret. She scratched at her
left temple with an index finger for a moment, then said, "Now
let me see...Oh yes, of course, Lestrade. Inspector
Lestrade."

* * *

A half an hour later Lestrade, Conan Doyle and I stood in
a small hallway outside the underground cell where Andrew Douglas
was being detained. We had taken Margaret Douglas back to
Andrew'sCampdenhouse Roaddwelling first, then had set out immediately to speak to
the accused.

Lestrade was a tall, deathly thin man, balding, with
snowy white hair and hard features, seemingly chiselled out of
marble. However, his features soften considerably for a moment as
he said: "So Sherlock Holmes is dead?"

"That's correct," agreed Conan Doyle. "He was struck down
by the greatest killer of them all."

"Professor Moriarty?" asked Lestrade. His hard features
suddenly lined with surprise and just a hint of fear.

"No, no old age."

Lestrade audibly heaved a sigh of relief, then said, "You
had me worried for a moment there...It's nearly forty years since
I despatched Moriarty over the Reichenbach Falls."

"You despatched Moriarty?" asked Conan Doyle, calmly
enough, but with just the trace of an edge behind his
voice.

"Er...well, with a little help from Mr Holmes, of
course," admitted Lestrade. Then as Conan Doyle continued to
stare, Lestrade added, "Actually it was Mr Holmes who actually
threw the villain over the falls...."

"Perhaps we can see the prisoner for a few minutes, now,"
suggested Conan Doyle. "If you don't mind, Inspector?"

"It's Chief Inspector now, if you don't mind," said
Lestrade. "Actually I could have retired years ago, but they just
couldn't spare me from the force, so I agreed to stay on, in
exchange for the promotion."

Conan Doyle shook his head ruefully and raised an eyebrow
for my benefit, then said, "Well, at any rate, Chief Inspector, I
have agreed to help Mrs Douglas to clear the name of her
brother-in-law."

"You'll have a hard job doing that, Mr Conan Doyle," said
Lestrade, taking a large key chain from an inner pocket of his
heavy overcoat. "He's as guilty as the day is long. It seems that
his sister-in-law was an old flame, before she dropped him to
marry his wealthy brother."

"Wealthy brother?" asked Conan Doyle, as Lestrade
examined the key chain ruminatively, trying to decide which of
the one hundred or so almost identical keys was the one which
would open the heavy metal door to the cell that we stood before.
"Margaret Douglas did not mention that the deceased had been a
wealthy man."

"No, well she wouldn't now, would she?" said Lestrade,
deciding to try a key in the lock. The key fitted, but refused to
turn, and for a moment refused to come out of the keyhole.
Finally Lestrade managed to withdraw the key by pulling with both
hands. "Not if she were trying to protect her old
flame."

"Perhaps not," agreed Conan Doyle, as Lestrade tried a
second key in the lock. "Still, it is up to you to prove Andrew
Douglas's guilt; not him to prove his innocence."

"And you think I can't?" asked Lestrade, smirking for a
moment, then grimacing with frustration as the second key also
stuck in the lock. "Then how about this? The deceased was killed
with his brother's revolver!"

For the first time since I had met him, Conan Doyle
looked startled. He asked, "Can you prove that?"

"I wouldn't have said it if I couldn't prove it, now
would I?" asked Lestrade. Then, realising that it was futile to
wait for an answer, he continued, "The handgun has been
identified by the dead man's maid, Bridget." He tried a third key
in the lock, without success, then said, "And by Andrew Douglas
himself!"

Conan Doyle and I were both amazed by this revelation; it
was the great author who asked, "Andrew Douglas has identified
the murder weapon as his own gun?"

"That is correct," agreed Lestrade, scratching his chin
ruminatively with the third key, before deciding to try a fourth
key in the lock.

"That is hardly the act of a guilty man," I pointed
out.

"Unless, of course, he were clever enough to realise that
he had more to gain by admitting ownership of the gun, than by
denying it and then perhaps being caught out in a lie," insisted
Lestrade withdrawing the fourth key from the lock.

"Oh come on!" I said, amazed by the Chief Inspector's
stupidity. However, Conan Doyle, who had had a lot more
experience with the policeman, merely said: "Perhaps,
Lestrade."

"But the strangest thing of all, is that the killing was
completely needless," said Lestrade, failing to get a fifth key
to even go into the lock.

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because Ian Douglas was already dying?"

"What?" I asked, staring hard at Lestrade, who was
smirking like the idiot that I was beginning to suspect him of
being.

"That's right, Dr Carringbush," said Lestrade. "Ian
Douglas was already dying of ele...elephant..." He reached into
an inner pocket of the overcoat and took out a small note pad,
which he leafed through for a few moments, before announcing,
"Ah, here it is, elephantiasis."

Lestrade read the single word through to himself a few
times, obviously wondering whether he had mispronounced it,
scratching his head with a key on the chain, then said, "Ian
Douglas was dying of elephantiasis."

"How in the world did he ever contract elephantiasis?"
asked the great author. "It is not exactly the type of disease
that you would come in contact with very often inSussex, or theBritish
Islesfor that matter. Elephantiasis comes from
theWest Indies. It is caused
by a parasitic, hair-like worm, which invades the body's
lymphatic channels. It is spread to humans through mosquito bites
and occurs only in tropical or subtropical regions. Which would
seem to exclude theBritish
Isles." Seeing that Lestrade was obviously
impressed by Conan Doyle's monologue, I decided to put in my
tuppence worth and said, "Isn't that what killed John Merrick,
the Elephant Man?"

"Joseph Merrick," corrected Conan Doyle. "No, but it was
something very similar to elephantiasis, at least in appearance."
He scratched his chin ruminatively for a moment, then added,
"Multiple neurofibromatosis, if I remember rightly. Otherwise
known as von Recklinghausen's disease." He paused again, then
turned his full attention upon Lestrade and said, "But listen
here, Lestrade, if Ian Douglas had elephantiasis, he must have
been to theWest Indiesat
least once."

"At least fifty times, more like it," said Lestrade,
making us both stare at him. "That is what the maid, Bridget,
claims. Apparently that's howDouglasmade his fortune, by trading betweenEnglandand theWest
Indiesand he made countless trips to
theWest Indiesover a period
of about twenty years."

Conan Doyle considered that for a moment, then said, "But
if he were dying of elephantiasis, his brother, Andrew, must have
known about it, surely?"

"Of course," I agreed. "It's not exactly the sort of
thing that you can hide. What, with your arms and legs blowing up
like balloons...."

"Well, that's true enough, Doctor," agreed Lestrade, "but
as I often used to say to Mr Holmes, there's no accounting for
the way the criminal mind works."

"Rubbish, Lestrade!" said Conan Doyle, and I was tempted
to add, 'As, no doubt, Mr Holmes often used to say to you,
Lestrade!'

Throughout our conversation, Lestrade had been trying
various keys in the lock, and finally he was rewarded by a loud
click as the door unlocked. Lestrade held the key up in triumph,
smirking as though he had just personally captured Jack the
Ripper.

As Lestrade moved to swing the ancient iron door open,
Conan Doyle place a restraining hand upon the Chief Inspector's
arm, and said, "One more thing before we go in to the cell,
Lestrade. For some reason, Margaret Douglas thinks that I am
Sherlock Holmes."

"She thinks...?" asked Lestrade. He scratched his head
ruminatively with the key to the cell door, turned to face me,
and said, "And I suppose that you are Dr Watson?"

"I'm glad to see that you have caught on so quickly,
Chief Inspector," said Conan Doyle. Under his breath, he added,
"For a change!"

Lestrade pretended not to have heard the last remark,
although his face coloured with indignation as he swung the iron
door wide and herded us into the tiny cell.

Directly opposite the cell door, was the foot of the slim
bunk, upon which Andrew Douglas lay as we entered the cell. There
was a slim L-shaped walkway around the bed, barely room for three
men to stand.

We squeezed into the tiny cell, and I was pleased to see
that Lestrade left the heavy iron door open behind us. I would
not have liked to have had to wait while the Chief Inspector
fumbled for the correct key, if we had the need to leave the cell
in a great hurry. Not that Andrew Douglas looked like the type to
give us any need to leave the cell in a great hurry.

He was tall and almost skeletal thin, with close-cropped
snowy white hair, and a boyish grin -- despite his predicament --
which at first made him seem little more than in his early
twenties. Until a closer inspection detected the crow's feet
around his eyes, which showed him to be aged in his mid to late
forties.

We squeezed into the tight confines of the tiny cell,
hardly more than a cage in reality, certainly unfit for a man to
live in ('Or a beast for that matter!' I thought), myself first,
then Conan Doyle, then Chief Inspector Lestrade.

Looking to my right I saw that both Conan Doyle and
Lestrade had propped themselves in a half seated pose: Conan
Doyle against a small wooden table; Lestrade leaning against the
yellow-tiled wall of the cell. I took a step backward to follow
their example and almost stood in a small wooden bucket upon the
floor. Looking down, I saw a trace of yellow liquid at the bottom
of the bucket and realised that I had almost stepped into the
tiny cell's toilet.

For a few moments we stood facing toward the accused,
then Lestrade cleared his throat noisily to attract the
prisoner's attention. Although Andrew Douglas was already well
aware of our presence, his keen eyes were fixed upon us, his brow
wrinkled in puzzlement.

"Mr Andrew Douglas," introduced Lestrade, sounding as
though he were making a formal introduction at a society affair,
"Mr Arth...."

"Sherlock Holmes," Conan Doyle introduced himself, with a
nod toward Douglas, who clearly did not know whether he should
lean forward to shake hands or not. Instead, he remained lying
upon the bunk and returned Conan Doyle's nod.

I leant forward (there was no need to walk across, since
the cell was so tiny) and offered my right hand to Douglas who
shook it, although he clearly did not have a clue what was going
on.

"Er...good morning gentlemen," said Douglas. "I am afraid
that I don't quite understand what I can do for you?"

"On the contrary, Mr Douglas," said Conan Doyle, "it is
what we can do for you. Your...your sister-in-law has asked Dr
Carr...Dr Watson and I to act on your behalf."

"Act on my behalf?"

The great author turned toward Lestrade and said,
"Perhaps Chief Inspector, you could be good enough to allow us a
few minutes alone with Mr Douglas?"

"Well, strictly speaking, I can't," protested Lestrade.
"Once he has been formally arrested and read his rights, he's
only supposed to be left alone with his nearest relatives, or
with his attorney."

"Very well then," said Conan Doyle. He turned toward
Andrew Douglas to ask, "May I enquire whether you have had the
opportunity to engage an attorney yet, Mr Douglas?" Andrew
Douglas shook his head, still clear puzzled, and so Conan Doyle
continued, "In that case, we shall represent Mr Douglas as his
attorneys."

"You?" asked Lestrade, now clearly every bit as puzzled
as the accused. "But neither of you is a certified
attorney."

"And neither of us needs to be," pointed out Conan Doyle,
"in case you are not aware of British law, Chief
Inspector."

Lestrade considered this for a moment, then shrugged and
said, "That's true enough...Well, in that case I suppose it will
be all right." He walked outside into the tiny corridor and
closed the heavy iron door again. As the key rattled in the lock,
I only hoped that he would be able to locate the correct key,
when the time came to release us.

"I have to be frank with you, Mr Douglas," said Conan
Doyle, "your sister-in-law has told Dr Carr...Dr Watson and I of
your affair, and that she was with you at the time of your
brother's death."

Andrew Douglas seemed shocked by this blunt approach.
After a few seconds, he composed himself enough to say, "But we
can hardly tell that to the police, now, surely?"

"No, however, perhaps if you had told them in the first
place...?"

"What good would it have done?" demanded Douglas. "The
police would have considered it to be a sordid business, and if
anything would have only taken it as further proof of my
despicable character. In reality there was nothing sordid about
it. We are truly in love, and Maggie was never happy with
Ian...."

"Yet she threw you over to marry him?" pointed out Conan
Doyle, with his usual bluntness.

Douglas blushed scarlet and stammered for a moment,
"Well, er...no...you see, we had already broken up before she
took up with Ian. She met him while she and I were going
together, and then quite a fair bit while we were engaged. When
we broke up, Ian went to console her and gradually they began to
see more and more of each other until they were married six weeks
after Maggie and I had split up."